


Forever, If You're Not Too Long

by 221brosiewilde



Series: Resurrections and Stolen Cigarettes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:32:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221brosiewilde/pseuds/221brosiewilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wilde,” Jim had said once, knocking the book out of Sebastian’s hand in favor of plopping into his lap like an oversized cat, “was an arrogant, Irish twit.”<br/> “I’m surprised you don’t like him then."<br/>In which Jim Moriarty shoots himself, Sherlock Holmes jumps off a building, and Sebastian Moran takes over London's criminal underworld.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever, If You're Not Too Long

**Author's Note:**

> Though this isn't the longest fic I've ever written, it is the one that I've put the most work into. Thank you to Sarah, who lovingly beta'd this and kicked my ass over tenses. To Laurie, for reading each installment and rooting me on as I wrote it (and for being very patient even after knowing we weren't going to make the deadline for the Sherlock Mini Bang). And last, but never least, to my girlfriend Rachael for reading this in its early stages, cheering me on, and (semi) drunkenly pointing out things that didn't make sense/were very OOC. You're all amazing.

“London,” Jim had said once, apropos of nothing, “is sexy.”

At the time, Sebastian hadn’t been focusing on the words. He’d been more concerned with the fact that Jim had just, for what must have been the sixth time that week, stolen a cigarette straight out of his mouth. He’d sighed, and reached into his pocket for another one since he knew from experience that getting it back would be a fruitless endeavor. Jim had always smoked whenever he was getting ready to wax philosophical about something or other, and Sebastian had learned fairly quickly that it was better to just let him go. Arguing would only lead to a dressing down that he had no interest in receiving.

That was something else he’d learned fairly quickly as well: rousing Jim from a pensive mood was a bad idea unless he was of a mind to handle the consequences.

 _Though_ , Sebastian thought, smirking to himself as he absently fingered a bruise on his wrist, _the consequences weren’t always bad_.

“Is that right?” he asked, voice slightly muffled by the cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. Hecupped his hand around the lighter to protect the flame from the harsh January wind, something he’d had to relearn after living in stagnant desert for so long.

“Mmhm,” Jim hummed, staring out at the house across from where they’d been standing for the past hour. He drummed his fingers against the side of his thigh, beating out a seemingly random tattoo; a sure sign that he was thinking very hard about something. “Very sexy. So much history runs through it...For example, did you know that Victorian Churchmen protested the building of the the London Underground because they thought that the noise of the trains would wake the devil?”

Click, click, _hiss_. The end of the cigarette ignited, and Sebastian inhaled greedily, relishing the burn in his lungs. Smoking: just one of his many vices, and ironically, probably the least deadly of the lot.

“Didn’t know I was going to be getting a history lesson,” he said, chancing a glance at Jim from out of the corner of his eye. His breath came out in a mixture of steam and smoke, making Jim glare at him when the wind blew it in his direction. “I can see the professor thing now.”

Jim scoffed. “It was one semester, and it was only an undercover job,” he said with a frown. Sebastian turned to look at him fully, but stopped when he noticed how dark Jim’s eyes had gotten. Still thinking, then.

Sebastian took another drag from his cigarette. They’d been standing there, watching the house in front of them for the past hour, and there was still nothing. It was starting to get boring, and for Sebastian, who’d made his living out of waiting for things to happen, for the perfect moment to strike, that was saying something. He exhaled again.

“In medieval times there was apparently a street called Gropecunt Lane,” he quipped. That, at least, earned him a raised eyebrow, causing him to feel awfully smug. It was rare to get a reaction other than anger out of Jim when he was like this.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Apparently there were several of them too.”

“Hm.” Jim grunted, his gaze sliding back to the house distractedly. “Not really the kind of sexy I was talking about.”

“I know,” Sebastian said, rolling his eyes. Suddenly the cigarette wasn’t so fulfilling anymore. He tossed it on the street, and ground it into the pavement with the heel of his boot. “Is there a reason we’re standing here, or are we just wasting time? I do have things to do today.”

“Yes.”

Sebastian paused, and wished that he could have managed to find a boss who actually spoke in full sentences at least ninety percent of the time. “Is that a yes to us wasting our time, or a yes that there’s a reason we’re standing here?”

“Yes.”

Sebastian frowned, and leaned back against the exposed brick of the building they were standing in front of before crossing his arms and hooking one ankle over the other in an outward display of unhappiness. Jim had always told him that he wore his emotions on his sleeve, and now he’d decided to do it purposely just to annoy him. Jim hated the obvious. Maybe that’d get a rise out of the bastard, he thought to himself. Though he doubted it would.

As subtly as he could manage, he watched Jim out of the corner of his eye, taking in his profile and doing his best to lock it into his memory. The mouth of the alley was casting a shadow onto the other side of Jim’s face, making him look more devious than usual. Sebastian can’t help his smile. Jim did like his drama - even more so since he’d found out about Sherlock Holmes living in London with his own little soldier boy. Though that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was Jim had stopped discussing plans with Sebastian.

Not that it really bothered him too much. In the almost five years they’d known each other (two of them spent working together and completely platonic, the other two and a half spent fucking and learning to find a strange kind of harmony in sharing a flat while continuing to work at the same pace as before), Jim had never been particularly clear in what it was he was planning until he had something for Sebastian to do. And Sebastian knew there were things Jim never got around to telling him. Hell, there were things that Sebastian never got around to telling Jim. It was all details that got lost in the bigger picture of Jim’s schemes for world domination, or whatever ridiculous super villain title struck his fancy at the time.

But lately it seemed deliberate. And it had started to make Sebastian very uncomfortable.

“Waking the devil,” Jim muttered under his breath. Sebastian quit pretending to look and finally did, fixing Jim with a curious gaze.

“Wha-”

The house across the street from where they’d been standing exploded, cutting Sebastian off. He ducked and pulled Jim into the alley, acting purely on instinct and years of training. But it was over almost as soon as it had happened and, just beyond the ringing in his ears, Sebastian heard Jim laughing.

He stood up, ready to pummel him, but Jim was too fast. Before he knew it, Sebastian found himself pressed up against the wall of the alley with the his voice in his ear, and his hand already working its way into Sebastian’s pants.

“The devil’s already awake.”

-

After that, Jim makes it a point to stand amidst the chaos he’s orchestrated, and Sebastian is his shadow as always.

They watch buildings burn. They kidnap children, plan the rise and fall of politicians, meet Sherlock Holmes in a pool, scheme with a dominatrix, ruin government plans, and kidnap some more children. In between, they order thousands of dollars in greasy take out, get drunk and lay on the floor together, fuck like rabbits, and, surprisingly enough, barely fight.

Sebastian never misses a shot, does the jobs he’s sent on, kicks employees and sometimes clients into gear. Jim is mercurial, has his black moods, and Sebastian does his best to stay quiet during those times. He keeps near Jim and listens to him when he rambles, puts up with the abuse whirled his way because he knows that it’s not meant for him.

Not really.

In return, Jim buys Sebastian clothes, weapons, takes him places, uses sex like an apology and a tool, kisses him the way Sebastian won’t admit he likes most (softly) before curling around him and succumbing to sleep. He coaxes Sebastian out of war nightmares, and doesn’t give him pitying looks when he wakes up.

It’s a give and take. And Sebastian, though he can only speak for himself, thinks it’s the happiest the two of them have ever been.

Jim snaps his fingers under Sebastian’s nose impatiently, and Sebastian looks to the passenger side of the car, irritated. “What do you want?”

“Your gun,” Jim says, holding his hand out. “Gimme.”  

“Say please,” Sebastian says, smirking slightly, though he’s already sitting forward to take the gun out of the waistband of his jeans.

“No,” Jim shoots back with all the imperiousness of royalty. Sebastian can see the amusement in his eyes though, the way the brown softens has always been a dead giveaway, much to Jim’s dismay. “Now.”

Sebastian frowns, and hands Jim the gun after making sure the safety is still on. He doesn’t even hesitate. Jim knows what he’s doing. And this is just Sherlock Holmes again. Another game. He’d kill the detective and then they’d be home in time for an episode of QI and a celebratory night of marathon sex. Then they could finally put it all behind them.

“Sherlock Holmes is a blip,” Jim had said earlier that morning after Sebastian had rolled off of him, the two of them still breathing heavily. He did this lately, started talking about the detective right after sex. Sebastian would be insulted, but he’d always known that people in general were blips to Jim, himself included. Insult wasn’t something he could claim as his own where the criminal was concerned.

But it does hurt.

Jim continues, “A boring little...little…” He stops, gesturing as he searches for the right word.

“Angel?” Sebastian suggests, wrapping an arm around Jim and burrowing his face into the crook of his neck.

“Yes,” Jim says, hissing the word like air escaping a tea kettle. “An angel. How very poetic of you, Sebastian.”

“Shut it.”

Jim takes the gun.

He smiles his viper’s smile, all teeth and none of the mirth, and unlocks the car.

“No kiss goodbye?” Sebastian asks, half teasing, the other half achingly hopeful. Jim doesn’t look at him; only smiles softly, looks out the window and up at the hospital casting its shadow over them.

Sebastian thinks he could write a book translating all of the smiles Jim Moriarty could produce, complete with a glossary and an index. He could write sonnets about the ones that reached his eyes, and maudlin dirges about the ones that were only masks, hiding the true expression underneath.

If only he could figure out which ones were which.

“Wait for me,” Jim says in reply, and he’s gone before Sebastian can answer.

He parks the car, and watches Jim disappear into St. Bart’s, still and silent like a tiger in the brush.

-

Days after, when he’s leaning against the railing of the balcony overlooking London, smoking his entire pack of cigarettes, he remembers a conversation he’d had with Jim only a week before he’d walked into St. Barts and never came out.

“You’re not thinking of the big picture,” Jim had said, reaching into Sebastian’s pocket and helping himself to a cigarette. “London is too big. If you think of all of the individual moving parts you’ll go insane.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Think of the entire thing,” Jim explains, uncharacteristically patient. “Plan a big plan, then find the right people to make your plan work. They’re all just the stars making up the constellation, so to speak. As long as you know what the main picture is supposed to look like, the individual parts don’t really matter. Get it?”

“No.”

He hadn’t gotten it. Not at the time. He’d figured Jim had just been rambling. He hadn’t seen a point to the conversation. What did he care how Jim looked at things? It wasn’t his job to think of the bigger picture. Sebastian was the one who was usually in charge of the all of the individual cogs and gears, making sure they all ticked and moved how they were supposed to so Jim would stay happy.

But now he could see it.

The events leading up to Jim’s death were like neon colored threads interwoven and locking together to create a patchwork map, all leading up to the final plan, and now Sebastian could follow it. He could pinpoint all the things that Jim had meticulously sewn together to make sure there were no tears in the fabric, that everything would come together just so.

He’d set it up perfectly too. Sebastian had gathered as much information as he could from the criminals he knew had been in contact with Jim in his final days, and according to them, they all believed it was a hoax. Sherlock Holmes had created Jim Moriarty. There was no Jim Moriarty. He was an actor on some children’s program that hadn’t even aired except once on late night tv and never again.

According to them, the empire Jim had built never even existed.

Sometimes, thinking about the last five years while polishing off a bottle of Jameson by himself, Sebastian would start to wonder if any of it had been real.

He lets himself mourn for six months.

He figures that waking up in the alley way behind a pub more than twice is overdoing it. The grief has become masturbatory, and even though it still hurts being in the same flat he’d shared with Jim for so long, he can’t let everything go down the drain.

 _Wait for me_.

He would. He’d take a page out of Wilde’s book and wait forever if it wasn’t too long.

“Wilde,” Jim had said once, knocking the book out of Sebastian’s hand in favor of plopping into his lap like an oversized cat, “was an arrogant, Irish twit.”

“I’m surprised you don’t like him then.”

The couch had never properly recovered after that.

Sebastian stares at the same couch, wishing he could be detached as the memories flood back. Jim had fucked him after making that comment. Hard and clawing and deep, the way he always did when he was pretending to be angry, like everything was a show and Sebastian was the audience. Sebastian remembers thinking that Jim fucked like wildcats, and at the time, the thought had made him laugh until Jim had split his lip with his teeth, bringing him out of his mind and back to what was happening.

The couch is covered in gasoline now.

The whole flat smells like lighter fluid and anticipation, like it knows what’s coming and is tensing in preparation for the blow.

But at least it’s still.

Eventually he’d gathered up enough courage to venture into Jim’s office.

Going through the files, and making sense of Jim’s spidery cursive had been tricky, trickier still had been going through his computer and figuring out the coding and passwords he’d encased the entire system in. It hadn’t been easy. That kind of higher brainwork had never been Sebastian’s forte, but he forced himself to be stubborn. And when that didn’t work, and he wanted to give up, he stuck with what he knew and what he’d always been good at.

Leading people.

Jim had always understood facts and cold machines. He’d always had to hide under a mask to get the right people over to his side, but Sebastian, from years of having to read men in dire situations, knew how to work in an emergency.

And criminals, panicky and underhanded rodents that they were, were the easiest to control, especially when all they needed was a tug at the leash to show who was in charge.

The room is dark, but Sebastian doesn’t mind. He’s had to sit in worse conditions before, and the cushy desk chair was infinitely better than at least half of them.

The lights flick on, and the resulting sound of surprise makes it all worth it.

“Moran,” Jeremy Cutler says, moving his hand away from his chest in a belated show of nonchalance. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. It’s been a while.” He grins suddenly, showing off yellowed teeth doing their best to leave his gums. It’s supposed to show that he’s not scared, but it becomes more of a grimace the longer he holds it. Telling. “How’s the missus?”

It’s a lazy jab, and Sebastian barely bats an eye at it. “Dead. But you already knew that.”

“I did. Blew his brains out, didn’t he? Shame. It’s all anyone can talk about,” Cutler simpers. He makes an abortive gesture towards his desk as if he’s about to ask if he can sit down, but Sebastian stares back at him and props his feet up, leaning back. Cutler curls his lip in a show of disgust, but backs off, cutting to the chase. “What do you want?”

Sebastian shrugs, letting a smirk creep onto his face. “Can’t a chap stop in for a friendly visit? I’ve been out of the loop for a bit, and I just wanted to know how things were going. Think of it as a status report.”

“A status report?” Cutler laughs. Sebastian can see the confusion behind it though, and in the very back of his beady eyes, fear. No one came into Jeremy Cutler’s office unarmed and alone with so much confidence unless they were hiding something. Sebastian could practically see the wheels turning in the man’s mind. “Who do you think you are, my commanding officer?”

“Actually,” Sebastian says, smiling the polite diplomat smile he’d seen his father put on at parties and social events when he wanted to be nasty without letting the other person know. “Yes, I am.”

“What?”

“I was Moriarty’s second in command,” Sebastian explains calmly. “Everything he owned is mine now. Those employees you’ve taken from me are mine. All of the property you’ve been earning money off of in the past six months? Also mine. The guns, and drugs, and whores and millions of pounds you thought you could snatch up with your greasy fingers while I was away trying to sort out the fucking mess I was left with. All. Mine.”

Sebastian can see the fear in Cutler’s eyes start to expand, and he drops his feet off of the desk, leaning forward and folding his hands in front of him. “I’m not just your ‘commanding officer’ now, mate. I’m your fucking god.”

“But...but you can’t just say that it’s yours now and take it,” Cutler protests, and Sebastian has to hand it to the man for speaking even when his voice is trembling. “That’s not fair! You left it all alone for six bloody months! You don’t get it all just because you were Moriarty’s bum boy-”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. Sebastian’s already on his feet and in Cutler’s face, pinning him against the wall before he consciously makes the decision to do it.

_You’re not thinking of the big picture._

Jim’s voice floats through his mind and his vision clears a bit. The smell of piss is already making its way through the room, and instead of beating Cutler to a pulp, he shoves him hard against the wall, feeling a kind of sick satisfaction when his head bounces against the peeling wallpaper. He couldn’t kill Cutler. Loathe though he was to admit it, he needed the grimey bastard. Keeping Jim’s empire alive was the goal, and he couldn’t fail. Not now.

“I do get it all,” he continues, his voice steady, calm. He tightens his hold around Cutler’s neck before going on. “I deserve every bit of what was left behind, and I want all of it returned to me. You can try to hide it, or run away with whatever you can carry, but I will find you, and when I do, I will make you watch as I take away every precious thing you hold dear.” He pushes Cutler away, and straightens his suit, idly realizing it was one that Jim had picked out for him. “And trust me, it will be _months_ before I actually let you die.”

Cutler sways on his feet a bit, and Sebastian puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Once he’s sure that he won’t fall, he opens the door, pausing before going through it, waiting.

Cutler clears his throat. “I...I can get it all to you by next week. Any sooner would be impossible. You...You understand, I’m sure.”

“I think you’ll manage to find a way,” Sebastian replies. “Tomorrow.”

After that, the criminal world goes quiet. Though everyone had been afraid of Jim, they’d been safe in thinking he was only an illusion. There had been a touch of the fantastic underlying all of the Moriarty rumors under Jim’s reign, but Sebastian had never been so good at subtlety.

He keeps it quieter than ever before. No one dares speak the name and those who do are quickly hushed by the more experienced. Those who don’t listen are silenced. Sebastian sees to it all.

Moriarty was the name that he would preserve, and the next two years are spent working tirelessly to do so. He finds himself unable to stop moving, having to do double the time Jim put in since he didn’t have all the easy genius or flair for villainy. His is a more hands on approach, but it seems to be working.

Until Mycroft Holmes starts taking an interest again.

Sebastian stares at the couch and watches the gasoline drip down, sliding around on the expensive hardwood in puddles. The government was too close now, despite all the work he’d put in to make sure no one knew anything, they were still lurking about; probably hoping to scrape up whatever evidence they could.

And the only solution to that, of course, was to burn the evidence.

But there had been whispers of a man...pale, lithe, with dark unruly hair, a face almost as sharp as his wits. Of course, nothing had gone public. No press conference or updates to John Watson’s stupid blog, so at least there hadn’t been a tearful reunion yet.

But still...there was talk. And several of the quietest operations he’d had going had been sabotaged.

It was worth taking a look at, especially now that Sebastian knew exactly what the man was capable of. If he could turn Jim’s head around, say whatever it was he said, or do whatever it was he he did, to make Jim shoot himself, then Sebastian wouldn’t be making the same mistake. He would be extra cautious. Of course he wasn’t a genius, but he’d lived with one for long enough to know how they worked. And if Sherlock and Jim were as similar as they appeared to be, then it shouldn’t be too hard. Geniuses, Sebastian figured, though they were on completely different sides morally, usually held the same beliefs about themselves, the same ideals…

Had the same plans.

If Sherlock Holmes could come back from the dead, then couldn’t anyone?

_Wait for me._

Sebastian shakes his head to clear away the thought before he could start hoping again, and breathes in the oddly compelling smell of gasoline and lighter fluid. Jim was dead. He’d seen the body, and if anyone could identify Jim’s body, it was him. Who else had ever gotten so close to Jim to be able to mark every freckle, every scar…?

He exhales, and takes one last look around the flat before shouldering his duffle bag and hefting it down the stairs. The sound of his feet hitting the hardwood echo in the small stairwell. There was no more time for sentiment. Jim wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t anywhere anymore except in the quick snatches of memory that occasionally made their way through Sebastian’s mind.

Two years he’d been without Jim. Two years and he had the entirety of London’s criminal underbelly groveling at his feet.

And he’d never wanted any of it.

He pauses outside the flat, and doesn’t spare it a second glance before striking the match and lighting his cigarette. He flicks the match into the stairwell, watching as it catches the trail of gasoline before walking across the street. Being blown to bits wasn’t something that particularly appealed to him no matter how pointless his life was now, but feeling the heat from the first explosion hit his face and singe his eyebrows felt like relief.

Catharsis.

He’d burn London down in Jim’s absence. It didn’t hold anything for him anymore. The world was empty of its demons and hell didn’t really exist in the London underground after all. There was no devil to be woken up.

Next to him, someone sighs.

“A bit melodramatic, all this. Don’t you think?” A voice asks close to his ear, sounding more amused than it had any right to be. Sebastian tenses and looks before he can stop himself.

Jim Moriarty grins back at him and takes the cigarette out of Sebastian’s mouth, inhaling before he speaks. “Hello, tiger,” he drawls, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Miss me?”


End file.
